


Like Bones in the Body

by Aelfay



Series: Levels!verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom John Watson, Hand Jobs, John Watson is a Responsible Dom, Levels!verse, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Sherlock is demanding, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Subspace, they're so softe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 12:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10967019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelfay/pseuds/Aelfay
Summary: Sherlock is demanding and nervous. John knows exactly what he needs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ((If you're more sex-repulsed and just want Soft Things, skip chapter two!))

"Give me a safeword, John," Sherlock says the next morning. It's been ages. He's been awake all of twenty minutes, and rather than having their promised conversation, John has been puttering around the kitchen doing  _normal_ things like tea and breakfast and finding the newspaper page with the crossword. 

John looks up and smiles a little. "I wondered when you'd remember."

"I've remembered. I've not forgotten. I'm pretty certain I dreamed about it, John, I've thought of nothing else, now  _give me a safeword_ ," Sherlock says, all at once, a bit demanding. He's slightly breathless, from frustration or terror or excitement or despair or all of the above. He's not entirely sure. 

John comes over and places a hand on his head, and Sherlock shivers down to his toes. "John," he says, and he's pleading, now, because it's true. He's been waiting. He's been good. 

"Sherlock," John replies, and his voice is gentle and even, and Sherlock swallows thickly, hoping. He's on the edge of the kitchen chair, looking up at John, and he can feel the edge of the wooden seat dig into his bum in a way that should be terrifically uncomfortable, but instead it's keeping him grounded as his heart thuds hard. 

John pets his hair and murmurs, "I think the regular colour system will do. Don't you? Red, Yellow, Green. Red to stop, Yellow to wait, Green to keep going."

Sherlock nods quickly. Yes. Normally he'd be annoyed at how unbearably simple the system is, but he knows that he's going to need simplicity in a moment. Or at least he hopes he will. 

John's hand is still in his hair, not petting but resting his palm while his fingertips rub circles into Sherlock's skull, and he can almost hear the hiss as he deflates, body going soft and relaxed. His head tilts forward, as it had the day before, resting his temple against John's hip, and John murmurs, "How long has it been, Sherlock?" His voice is heavier now, and Sherlock's mind slows. He's glad he's sitting down. 

"Yesterday," Sherlock whispers, slightly dazed, because it's true, and John chuckles. 

"That's fair. I'm being silly. How long before that?"

Sherlock swims through the muddle in his head, and replies after twenty seconds (ages), "Mycroft did, once. When I had to go to rehab. He had to get me in the car." Mycroft didn't dom Sherlock as a general rule, but Sherlock had pushed him and he'd snapped. Sherlock has never forgiven him.

John stops the movement of his fingers, and Sherlock wants to grab them and make them move,  but more than that he wants John to be pleased, and so he stays still. Eventually, the fingers move again, and John asks, "What's your level, Sherlock?"

"Three," Sherlock says, and John pauses again. Three on a one-to-ten scale is... well. It's low. Even Lestrade is an eight-point-five, as far as Sherlock can gather, though he's never gotten an actual look at Graham's papers (dull). Mycroft is a nine, and Sherlock hates him for it. 

A full ten on the scale is supposedly practically impossible. There was one known to the public when he was little, Sherlock remembers, but then the man died. Sherlock has begun to suspect that John might be a ten, and that's  _marvellous, incredible, wonderful, he'll be able to keep me quiet and soft inside and I won't be able to do a thing to stop him_ \--

John's said something, but Sherlock didn't hear what it was. He's listening better now because John very gently tapped his shoulder. He's asking about touching, about clothes. "Anything," Sherlock says, and he means it. He hasn't wanted before -- never cared enough -- but since John moved in, he's wanted. He's dreamt about it. He can't remember the dreams, at the moment. His head's too fuzzy. But he can recall some of the feelings.  _Warm skin, soft, with hardness underneath. The tang of salt in his mouth._

He's never felt this safe while under before. In primary school he'd been forced to do a fair number of things: stealing treats for other students or sharing his treats at lunch even when he wanted them. He'd trained hard, forcing himself to go still and deep when he went under, so that he just dropped to the floor, stayed in the same spot, and stared at the person when they tried to control him. It was his only defence against the natural mechanism of his mind. Eventually, he'd gathered a few more tools in his arsenal - the ability to crawl away, for one, or press a button on his phone that called Mycroft or Lestrade if he were in trouble. All the same, he'd never stopped feeling that crawling, dizzy, awfully vulnerable sensation whenever he was dommed. 

This was different. It felt like floating, like he was surrounded by safety, like home, and he gave himself up to it willingly. His breathing was even and soft, body relaxed, every nerve alight under John's moving fingertips. 

A finger tips his head up, and it's John looking down at him now, fondness in his eyes. Sherlock stares back, blinking occasionally at how beautiful John is. Maybe it's not society's version of beautiful, but Sherlock sees it in every weather-beaten line on his face. John smiles. "You go under so easily," he murmurs, "I'll have to be careful. Give me a colour, Sherlock."

"Green," Sherlock says, without hesitation, and John's face shifts into approval. Warmth spreads through Sherlock's chest --  _John approves_  -- and he says it again, wanting to make the feeling last. "Green."

"You could have just asked, you know, instead of making it a plan for a case," John says, and his voice is laced with fond humour. Sherlock blinks twice. He hadn't planned for this, had he? He honestly can't say. Perhaps he had. Either way, he's pleased with the result. He doesn't know what his face is doing, but John scans it and chuckles before he says softly, "Go to the bedroom, Sherlock."

Sherlock slides to the floor and crawls. He can hear John's sharp intake of breath behind him, but his head's buzzing too happily for him to know what it means. He does know that he likes being lower than John and that his knees would likely give out if he tried to walk, so this is nicest. When he gets to the bedroom he stops a few feet inside the door, leaning back on his heels, looking behind him to make sure he's not been left alone, but John's only a few steps behind, closing the door. 

"Good," he says, and Sherlock feels his spine relax. He hadn't even known it was tense until it suddenly unbends, and he moans happily as John's hand slips into his hair again. "Good," John says, in a low, pleased tone, and Sherlock moans again, shivering and closing his eyes. 

"Into bed," John says softly, "Come on. Take it slow, but stand and let's get you on the mattress." Sherlock's limbs feel like putty, and he groans his dissatisfaction, but then John's hand moves away and he's lifting Sherlock and helping, and that makes it easier to stand. He only trips once on the way to his bed, and then John's pulling back the covers and helping Sherlock lie down. Sherlock panics for a moment that John's going to leave him there like that, but John toes off his shoes and slips in next to him, and that's  _lovely, perfect, there's a typhoon in his bed and it's the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to Sherlock, ever, including getting the skull for Christmas when he was ten._

"Relax," John murmurs, pulling Sherlock against his chest. He shifts Sherlock easily until they're properly spooning, and Sherlock closes his eyes. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes care of Sherlock.

John kisses his neck. That's lovely, and Sherlock tips his head in the pillow, baring more of his neck for John. John hums, and Sherlock can hear the smile in it. Approval. His chest goes warm again, and he sighs out a long breath. John seems pleased by this as well, his hand stroking up and down Sherlock's stomach over his shirt. Sherlock wants it on his skin, wants to feel the ripple of fingertip ridges as they move, but he doesn't say so because John is in charge. John will take care of him.

John chuckles. "Sherlock," he says, "You talk out loud when you're under." Sherlock considers this. No, he doesn't. Does he? He hadn't thought he was talking aloud but now John's giggling a little, and Sherlock opens his eyes to watch because it's beautiful when John's face crinkles around the eyes with happiness, and he helped make it happen so he's rather proud. 

A hand combs through Sherlock's hair lightly, and he shivers and closes his eyes. John is still smiling, he knows, when John says, "I'm going to unbutton this shirt, all right?"

"Yours too?" Sherlock asks, because he's so far under that it just falls out of his mouth, and John's chuckling softly now. 

"Mine too," he assures him, and the buttons on Sherlock's shirt swish out of their buttonholes gently as John undoes them one by one. It must be chilled in his room, but he doesn't feel it because he's gone pink all down his chest. He knows because he always goes pink when John touches him, and John is touching him now, tracing patterns on his skin.

The hand leaves his hair and he knows from the swish of John's buttons that it's moved to undo John's shirt. He realises he should probably be helping, and reaches up, but John takes his hand and presses it back against the bed. "No, Sherlock. Let me take care of things." Sherlock shivers. He's not in charge. John is in charge. John is going to take care of him, and Sherlock just has to wait and let him. He melts into the mattress. It's soft, and he's still slightly leaning against John's chest, which is firm, and he likes the sensory contradiction. 

"I'm glad you like it," John says, and Sherlock realises he must be talking aloud again, before John says gently, "Move to the side a bit." Sherlock reluctantly moves, but opens his eyes and is quite pleased to see John stripping off his shirt. His chest goes tight, and his vision goes a little misty, and he reaches out to touch - he's not trying to help this time, he just wants to feel it, and John lets him, which is - oh. Sherlock's brain goes still when his fingertips brush John's chest. He's not deducing, no, but he is taking in detail: the way John's skin dimples in and the way it goes pale and then regains colour when he presses and releases, the softness of it, the occasional chest hair. John hums and Sherlock can feel it vibrate.

He knows he isn't talking now because he realises that the high whine is himself, and John is pulling him close, combing a hand through his hair as he shushes him, and his brain goes soft and quiet and still again. He looks up at John, eyes wide, and John smiles and kisses his temple. "I haven't even touched you yet," he says fondly, "I knew you'd be responsive. Breathe, Sherlock." Sherlock breathes.

Sherlock breathes, and John tells him to breathe again, so he does, and then -- _and then_ \-- John says, "I'm going to kiss you now." 

Sherlock's very grateful John had him breathe beforehand because it would be impossible to do now. He stares up at him, hoping his eyes say what he means, which is:  _yes, please, I've wondered what your lips taste like, I want to know, please_.

John leans in, and Sherlock's eyes are still open, and John murmurs, "Close your eyes, Sherlock." Everything goes dark, and then every nerve in Sherlock's body centres on his lips, because John's lips are brushing his. He reaches and clutches in the black and finds soft skin, and clings to it as their lips pass again and again over him, and he's left shaking with how momentous this is, how important. 

John pulls back and murmurs, "breathe." Perhaps some of the shaking was air deprivation, then. Sherlock sucks in air and feels his head clear, and he opens his eyes again to see John smiling down at him. That's almost as momentous as the kiss, because they have kissed now, and John is still smiling. 

"Good," John approves, and Sherlock melts into the bed, squirming a little to feel the softness of the sheets on his skin, to ground himself. John watches and seems to approve, and Sherlock shivers, looking up at him as John seems to decide what he wants next. 

"Fewer clothes," is what he settles on, and he shifts to shove down his own trousers and pants, but Sherlock doesn't get much of a glimpse because then John is shifting to take off Sherlock's. There's a portion of Sherlock that knows if he weren't under he'd be mortified, but it doesn't bother him right now. It only seems right that he wouldn't be hidden in front of John, who seems pleased by what he sees. 

John straddles his ribs and Sherlock's breath catches, but he waits, looking up at him for instructions. John's eyes are strong and kind as he says, "I've seen you with your cigarettes when you think I've not noticed. And the way you play with your fingers at your lips. You like keeping your mouth busy when you're not talking with it."

_Oh. Taste. Salt on his lips. Yes, please._ He's talking aloud again, he thinks, perhaps, but he's too dizzy to tell, reaching for John's hips, making soft desperate sounds as he tries to pull John's hips up. John chuckles and shifts amiably, but orders, "Just sucking, for now, don't try to take too much down your throat, I don't want you choking." Sherlock's shoulders relax a little because he doesn't like choking at all (blowjobs for cocaine, not like this, not like  _beautiful kind perfect luminous_  John above him with approving eyes). 

John guides his cock to Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock shudders, opening his mouth and slipping his mouth over the tip and sucking gently like he'd been told. It's thick, and he has to stretch his mouth a little, and the dark tang of John's taste is on his tongue. He moans, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, and hears John's breath catch above him before John says, "Good, Sherlock. You listen so well. Good." 

Sherlock moans and sucks again. He wants to use his tongue, but doesn't, because John told him just sucking for now. That's all right because this is more than he ever thought he'd have. He feels John's weight on his chest and ribs and knows John's holding most of it up with his thighs in a position that takes strength ( _strength_ , he shivers inwardly) but it's still just enough to hold him down and keep him from floating away. He sucks and tastes and sucks again, and realises belatedly that his hands are still on John's hips, and he likes that too. It's soft skin under his hands, and he can shift his thumbs and feel where the crease of John's hips meet the muscle of his thigh in this position. Sherlock adores that John has creases, that when he bends he gets the same rolls as everyone else at his stomach and his thighs. It's softness just for Sherlock; for now, anyway. 

John closes his eyes for just a moment, and a shiver runs down his spine, and Sherlock thinks to himself,  _I did that, that was me_ , and groans as his cock responds with a throb. John opens his eyes again and shudders. "I'm going to come in your mouth," he says, "And then I'm going to take you apart with my hand."

All the air leaves Sherlock's lungs and his hands clench on John's hips as he arches and whines.  _Yes, yes please, yes sir._ John seems pleased with his response, and shifts his hips a little, fucking just slightly into Sherlock's mouth, hitting the soft palate at the back of the top, but not his throat. Sherlock shudders with it, mouth going lax except for the suction. John pants for a moment, and then begins to start a rhythm with the little movements. Sherlock sucks like he was told, and watches as John's breathing picks up, his chest flushing above him, his rhythm going irregular. And then, beautifully, he goes entirely still, gripping Sherlock's hair in a harsh fist as his body goes tense. The first splash on Sherlock's tongue is heaven, and he swallows eagerly, wanting all of John in him. 

John pulls out of his mouth when it's too sensitive, and Sherlock whimpers until John moves down, kissing him instead. Sherlock's head is so blissfully blank, only thinking  _taste lips soft John John John John John_ , that he doesn't realise John has shifted him until a hand curls around his cock. He has to break the kiss to cry out, shuddering. "John. Sir. Sir, oh. Please, sir. Sir." He's about to beg, about to tell John he'll be so good, he'll promise to be good, but John shushes him. 

"Hush, good man. I've got you, you've done so well," John tells him, and Sherlock sobs against his lips as John sucks on the bottom one. A heart-stopping moment where Sherlock can't breathe and he clutches John's waist with the one arm that can, and John murmurs, "Come for me," and then --

" _Oh_ , oh, oh, John, John, JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn---" Sherlock shakes apart. He can feel the mess he's making on his own stomach, can feel John stroking him through it, can feel lips against his temple, another hand in his curls, John's leg thrown over his thighs and his pressure steady against Sherlock's side, cool air, warm breath at his temple, and he can't stop repeating John's name. Even when his breathing begins to steady, his head can't think beyond the sensory and John's name, and over all of it is the steady pressure of John's dominance. Sherlock can feel his approval like honey in his veins, slow and thick and warm. "John, John," he whispers, voice going softer and softer, and John kisses his temple, a gentle pressure against his temple. 

"Rest," John murmurs, "I'm here. I won't let you go."

Sherlock looks up at him, that beloved familiar face, and closes his eyes so the image of it remains on the back of his eyelids, and sleeps. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Richard Siken's poem Saying Your Names in Crush. 
> 
> This was so hard to write. Apparently me+porn=panic. I got stalled halfway through and freaked out three times. So please be kind in the comments, though gentle critique is always welcome. I'm learning.


End file.
